


Ser Brien and the Golden Lion

by LadyRhiyana



Series: Genderswap tales [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Canon typical attitudes to homosexuality, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Male Brienne of Tarth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 15:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17984114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: “No,” Brien says, miserably. His hand tightens unconsciously on Oathkeeper’s hilt. “No wife, no maid. No – no women. At all.”“Ah,” Tormund says. “Well.” He coughs, strokes his luxurious ginger beard. “I’m not judging, lad. It takes all sorts, and we can’t help who we love.” He grins, suddenly. “Did I ever tell you why they call me Husband to Bears?”**In which the author reaches for something insightful and ambitious, but instead ends up writing fluff.





	Ser Brien and the Golden Lion

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not have existed had it not been for downlookingup, who suggested that there was a third possible variation on the J/B genderswap theme and asked if I could do male!Jaime x male!Brienne. 
> 
> I had grand intentions of working in Jaime/Arthur Dayne, Tywin Lannister's intolerance, the white cloak hiding any number of sins and the question of whether it's better to be thought a kingslayer, a sister-fucker or a pillow-biter, but I was ambushed by fluff.
> 
> Please enjoy(!). *Clicks post before I can change my mind*

When Lady Sansa Stark accepts Ser Brien of Tarth as her sworn sword, neither of them are prepared for the prurient gossip that follows. Some say that Lady Sansa seduced Ser Brien – who, after all, is not the handsomest of men – to bind him to her cause; others say that Ser Brien is no more than an opportunistic hedge knight, seeking to take Winterfell for himself. 

“Ignore it,” Sansa says, wise in the ways of gossip and slander. “Words are wind.”

“But, my lady,” Brien says. “I can assure you, I have no interest in –”

“In women?” Sansa asks. 

Brien flushes and looks away. 

“I knew Ser Loras, in King’s Landing,” Sansa says. “I know that he and Lord Renly were – close. It’s like that with you, isn’t it?”

**

_When Brien was sixteen years old, shy, gangling, and painfully awkward, Lord Renly had been – kind – to him. It had been nothing more than a warm smile, a press of his hand – a gallant, gentle kindness._

_When Brien was seventeen years old, he’d met Ser Jaime._

**

“You’re a tall, strapping lad,” Tormund says, clapping Brien on the shoulder. It’s a strong, hearty buffet, but Brien barely moves. “Good with sword and axe. So why have you not stolen a wife yet and got yourself some strong bairns?”

Caught off-guard, Brien coughs. “I don’t,” he says, “I’ve never –”

“No?” Tormund asks. “Are you like one of those knights in the songs, pining for a maid above your station?”

“No,” Brien says, miserably. His hand tightens unconsciously on Oathkeeper’s hilt. “No wife, no maid. No – no women. At all.”

“Ah,” Tormund says. “Well.” He coughs, strokes his luxurious ginger beard. “I’m not judging, lad. It takes all sorts, and we can’t help who we love.” He grins, suddenly. “Did I ever tell you why they call me Husband to Bears?”

And so the moment passes.

[“Still,” Tormund says later. “I wouldn’t have thought it of you, lad. Normally you Southron men-lovers are, well, I always thought you’d be – prettier.”

Brien thinks of Renly, with his clean hands and his manicured beard, resplendent in silks and velvets and cloth of gold. He thinks of Loras with his melting brown eyes and tumbled curls. 

He thinks of Jaime, golden and magnificent.] 

*** 

_When he was seventeen years old, Brien had won the melee at the great Tourney of the Hand._

_He’d received a hearty slap on the back and a fat champion’s purse from King Robert himself, and had sat at the king’s own table during the great feast that had followed._

_It was much later that night, in the early hours of the morning, that he first saw Ser Jaime Lannister. The notorious Kingslayer had been drunk and lazy – sated, some part of Brien’s awareness whispered – his edges blunted._

_They’d spoken. Even blunted, Jaime’s tongue had been too-clever; his smile too-sharp, too-reckless; still, Brien had found himself fascinated. Ever afterwards, he was never able to fully recapture the events of that night: they’d talked, and they’d broken into the training yard and mock-sparred with wooden swords – even drunk, Jaime was still the most exhilarating opponent he’d ever faced – and afterwards they’d climbed to the top of White Sword Tower and watched the sun come up, sharing a skin of wine between them._

_It had never gone beyond that one night. Events in King’s Landing had spiraled out of control: Jaime had attacked Lord Stark in the streets and fled west back to Casterly Rock, and Brien had gone back to Tarth._

_Afterwards, when Lord Renly proclaimed himself the rightful king and called his banners, Brien had answered._

** 

When Jaime finally comes to Winterfell, it is Brien who speaks on his behalf. 

“Of course,” Tyrion says, “I remember you now. You came to King’s Landing with the Tyrells, after Renly was murdered. Jaime took you under his wing, didn’t he?” 

Brien smiles weakly. “Yes,” he says, “something like that.”

** 

_After Renly’s death, Brien accompanied the Tyrell forces back to King’s Landing. There he saw Jaime again, older, perhaps wiser, but at *such* a cost._

_Still, if his skill with a sword was ruined, his tongue was every bit as sharp and his smile just as cruel._

_“The beautiful Ser Loras hates you, Ser Brien,” he’d said. “Did you really dump him on his arse in the melee? Or was there some other reason?”_

_Brien had flushed, and looked away. Just for a moment, but it was enough for Jaime to pounce on –_

_“Oh, Renly,” he’d laughed. “Always choosing the gilded surface over solid worth. Your precious Renly was no more than a boy playing at being a king, dressing up in fine silks and velvets –”_

_“And what are you, ser,” Brien had snapped, stung, “but an oathbreaker playing at being a man of honour?”_

_He was never sure, afterwards, whether he was referring to the Kingslaying or to the whispers of incest and adultery._

_Jaime had clenched his fist in Brien’s surcoat, dragged him closer with surprising strength. “What do you know of honour, boy?” he’d hissed, his green eyes blazing._

_Brien stared at him, caught by that sudden intensity. “Then tell me,” he’d said. “Help me to understand.”_

** 

“It was Ser Jaime who sent me to find you, Lady Sansa,” Brien says. “He sent me to fulfill the oath that he made to your mother, Lady Catelyn." 

**

_After King Joffrey’s death, Jaime had sent Brien away from King’s Landing._

_Perhaps it was because of the way the Queen had spoken to Brien at the wedding. Perhaps it was simply as Jaime said: to fulfill Jaime’s oath to Lady Catelyn and rescue the lost Stark daughters._

_No matter the reason, Jaime had given Brien a Valyrian steel sword and sent him off on a quest._

_Despite himself, Brien had looked back as they parted, turning around for one last glimpse of the golden, magnificent Ser Jaime Lannister, no longer so cruel and capricious but still so very, very far out of his reach._

**

When Brien returns to his tiny stone chamber, he finds Jaime waiting for him. Stripped of his heavy furs and leather, he’s wearing a dark grey woolen surcoat and black breeches, his hair seeming all the fairer. 

“You’ve grown out your beard,” Brien says, sitting down heavily on his bed. “It looks –” he searches for the correct word. 

“Like a lion’s mane?” Jaime says, with a shadow of his old, cutting smile. “If so, I must be a toothless, greying lion.”

“Never toothless,” Brien reassures him. Slowly, gently, he reaches out and places his hand against Jaime’s bearded cheek, feeling the warmth and vitality of him, the soft rasp of his beard. He’s here, Brien thinks. Finally, he’s here, and I can reach out and touch him –

“I’ve broken with Cersei,” Jaime whispers, his green eyes fixed on Brien’s. “I’m no longer the Lord Commander, the Lord of Casterly Rock, or even the commander of the Lannister armies. All I’ve brought you is myself – one man, one sword; not even two hands.”

His lips are cracked and split from the cold and the blowing wind, but Brien leans gently into the kiss, savouring the soft sweetness of it – 

“You’re here,” he breathes. “You came. That’s enough.”


End file.
